


Loops of Fate

by MT2Gigi



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anger, Angst, BUCKETS OF ANGST, Blood, F/M, Gen, Grief, Pain, Panic Attacks, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 06:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20792150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MT2Gigi/pseuds/MT2Gigi
Summary: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Hell also hath no fury like a nation grieving for its loss. As Fate would have it, in Natalya Arlovskaya, one finds both.





	Loops of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Heyy! Thank you for clicking! Hope you'd enjoy the fic! 
> 
> P/S: I'm looking for a beta reader. If you're interested, please PM me!  
(More information on fandoms in End notes)

The sound of broken glass shatters the dead silence of the dining room, tingling noises reverberating across the hollow, empty halls. Five other occupants of the room cease the motions of knife and fork in favour of staring at the offender of the stillness. Silence, once again.

“Natalya, is everything alright?” The soft voice of one Yekaterina “Katyusha” Cherenkov breaks the quietude, crisp. Her aqua blue eyes shine with a concern rarely seen any more in this house.

“Yes. I’m fine, Sister. Just a careless slip of hand.” Says Natalya Arlovskaya, face void of emotions. She wordlessly signals for a servant to clean up the mess beneath her feet.

“You need to be more careful, _da_, Sister.” She turns to her beloved brother, Ivan Braginski, who smiles at her as he does everything else (eating, walking, _torturing_). Natalya forces the sudden nausea down the back of her throat, nods back in response.

“Yes, Brother.” She returns his smile with a stony lift of lips.

The silence resumes. No noise, no buzz. Not even the sounds of cutleries on porcelain: suddenly, no one feels like eating anymore.

Silence reigns supreme.

Plain, unadulterated silence.

“Natalya!” The Belorussian whirls around at the sound of her name. Toris Laurinaitis, her childhood friend, approaches as soon as they exit the dining hall.

“What.”

Natalya barely bats an eyelash as the Lithuanian flinches at the harshness of her voice. More than anyone, he is well aware of how much she truly hates him.

“Ah…I…uhm…just want to know if you are alright.” Eyes resolutely on the floor, the man twirls his forefingers around one another as he speaks. He sounds as meek as he looks. Natalya grits her teeth. “It’s…you don’t seem well….”

“As I said before, I’m. Fine.” She bites out, eyes gleaming. “It’s just a slip of hand. Understood?”

Without another word, Natalya spins on her heels and walks away. Back turned, head high, Natalya strides forward. She has never needed anyone worrying about her before, and certainly does not now. She is independent, more than capable of taking care of her issues, Natalya tells herself, as she marches without looking back.

A faint whisper in answer is all that is left. Toris Laurinaitis lowers his head. His heart breaks.

Natalya is busy keeping her attention on the white sheets of paper. Ivan called for an emergency meeting an hour ago; no one else was around. There has been another dispute with Alfred F. Jones, the rising American World Power, and Ivan is furious. The man has been muttering angrily for the past hour, pacing back and forth with his boots thumping noisily on the old wood floor. Natalya remains silent throughout his ranting, fingers playing with her expensive pen – a gift from Brother. Natalya has managed a few sketches; a one-legged bird, her white bow, an ornamental cuff. Amidst another sketch, the Belorussian realises her Brother has stopped talking. She peers up under pale lashes, meeting Ivan’s intense violet stare with her flat indigo gaze.

“Ah, Natalya, you have always been my most precious person. My beloved sister,” Ivan says, offers a soft smile, sharp edges lined the corners of his mouth, “You have always been by my side. You are always loyal to me, _da_?” He croons at her; Natalya cannot part her lips, eyes fixed upon his smile. The clock ticks rhythmically in Natalya’s ears. Ivan’s patience reaches its limits.

“_Da_, _Sister_? You are_ always loyal and devoted to me, isn’t that right_?”

He walks, each step heavy and loaded, to where she is sitting at his desk, bending his back to her, eyelevel, “After all, it is _I_ who liberated you. It is _I_ who takes care of you. It is _I_ who protects you. Who makes sure you are _safe_ from other world powers, _da_? Aren’t you grateful? You are, aren’t you? You’ll always stay with Big Brother, _da_?”

His smile widens. Natalya’s ears buzz, she cannot hear. A slow wordless nod.

She will not leave Brother. She _cannot _leave Brother.

Lying amongst the pure white snow, Natalya could have passed as part of the sceneries with her frost-pale skin and platinum blonde hair, if not for her bloodied navy dress. Cold. Too cold. Natalya can hardly feel her limbs anymore. Her breaths come out in miniscule puffs of misty steam. Everything is blurry, Nataly’s eyelids too heavy and sleep ready to take over.

Discarded weapons all around her, her countrymen littered across the ground like black dots on a Dalmatian’s coat. She could feel it. The invisible, terrifyingly palpable, siege of their enemy.

Her Big Brother is nowhere to be seen.

_Am I going to die, _she thinks, delightfully detached and apathetic of matters of life and death. They are barely hers to decide anymore. She closes her eyes, too tired…

“Oh? What have we here?”

Natalya’s eyes snap open at the sound of a husky, gruff male voice. It sounds amused. Blood-coated. Like a switch, Natalya’s body tenses up, muscles locked into place. And yet…nothing happens. As terrified as she is, Natalya cannot muster enough energy to push herself off of the frigid ground. She tries to think. _Perhaps she could talk her way out of whatever is about to come?_ Different names and nations flashing through her mind; _too_ _many. _The effort of trying to focus and at least catalogue the arrival party makes her head ache, feels as though it has been wrapped up in barbwires.

Those blood-red eyes, the silver-white hair. Deep blue uniform. That _symbol_. 

Natalya’s pupils dilate, recognition icing her veins.

_Prussia, and its personification, Gilbert Beilschmidt._

Natalya can only stare, for a few precious moments she cannot afford to lose lest she wishes to offer her life to the devil himself. She inhales, through her nose. The breath stays, Natalya has stopped breathing. Then, the rage hits. In one push, Natalya manages to lift her back off the snow, hands curling into fists, ready to fight, to _claw _at the figure hovering over her. It was frigid, burning anger for a moment. Before her arms give out underneath the dead weight of her body. She stares, again, wide-eyed, at the face pale as her own, whose smile only grows by the seconds. And Natalya finds herself _hate_. Hate this place, this _war_, this _nation_, this _man _who has made their lives _hell_. She _hates_, _hates herself, for her own helplessness._ And she pours it all in the grind of her jaws, her _glare_, glowering even underneath the blood coating her face.

“_Ohoh_. Rather feisty, aren’t you? Impressive,” The _bloody _Prussian laughs, clearly entertained, “You’re not all looks, huh. _Kesesese_.” Natalya loathes the sounds he makes, calculating, grating, _cruel_. She hates the glint in his eyes. Wants – no, _needs _to claw those red pupils off that face.

Gritting her teeth, Natalya tries to push herself up once more. But the sharp pain that shoots from her shoulders down her arms prevents her from moving another inch. Depleted and desperate, Natalya does not notice a hand extending towards her. A grave mistake. Because the next second, she cannot dodge the warm fingers finding their way upon her ice-cold cheek. Before she realises it, Natalya’s arm has taken a wild swing at the offending limb. Just for her wrist to be encased in an iron grip. Tight enough to ensure a horrid bruise under her already battered skin. She cannot pull away, or move. Natalya can only seethe.

“Really. I’m more and more impressed.” She can see amusement lighting up those blood-red eyes, glistening as bright as the substance itself over snow. Natalya growls, fury blistering in her veins, urging her to do something. _Anything._ With the last of her strength, and a scream that threatens to tear her throat bloody, Natalya throws her body over, pins Prussia on the frozen ground and keeps him there with all that is left of her body weight.

All of her pain forgotten, only the anger and resentment toward this world – her _Brother_, the scoundrel beneath her, _herself_ – fuel her actions. It feeds the embers in her, blows it up, turning her fluttering flames into blazing wildfires with its dark energy. Her eyes burn with all the hatred and abhorrence the entire seven hells have to offer. Pale fingers tighten even more around the bare throat of the cause of it all.

Natalya Arlovskaya is swallowed by her rage; can only see _white_, _hot, scalding flames_. She does not see the wolfish grin blooming on thin lips, nor does she see pleasure dancing in ruby red stare. Natalya only hears booming laughter _when the devil finally tosses her over_. Her back smacks against unforgiving snow. Natalya _screams_, forgotten pain rushing back with the force of a broken dam. Devastating. Excruciating.

“Oopsie. Sorry. Forgot you were injured,” Gilbert Beilschmidt says, breezy. “Now, now. You’re not in any condition to fight me. So calm down, milady. Let’s get you out of the snow first and treat your wounds. Can’t really afford to have a subject of my awesome reign dead under my watch.” He looks as arrogant and commanding he sounds. She _despises_ him.

Natalya opens her mouth for a nasty retort, only for a tortured scream to rip past her lips. The _ache _at her injured side has merely served to enhance the _pain _that comes with the blow. Before cold darkness could overtake the last of her consciousness, Natalya hears a smirking voice whisper into her ear, _“Rest. We’ll have lots of fun when you’re all better.”_

Natalya Arlovskaya wakes up to unfamiliar surroundings. It takes a few seconds to clear the haze that has settled over her gaze. Another few to wake her sleeping muscles, enough to allow Natalya to turn her head and survey the room, in hope of figuring out where she is. There is no doubt this is not her home, nor is it her Brother’s, or any of the other eastern European nations’ for that matter. Slightly alarmed, and still much confused, the Belorussian tries to sit up and get a hold of her situation, but the motion proves too much for the tenderness all over body. Huffing a breath, Natalya drops back down.

The Belorussian could feel herself slowly giving in to the temptation of sleep, exhaustion too much to ignore, when memories of a certain event flash in her mind, clear as yesterday. Natalya’s eyelids fly open, grogginess all but replaced by familiar waves of anger. Nasty realisation flooding her brains, Natalya cannot help but feel sick. Gritting her teeth, Natalya tries once more to push her body up. She manages to get as far as on her elbows, before hearing that accursed voice again.

“_Guten Tag_! You sure can sleep huh~”

This man never seems to lose his cheerfulness, regardless of how _wrong _a situation could be. Natalya clenches her jaw, swallowing the bile rising at the back of her throat. She graces the white-haired man with a glare that could pierce a concrete wall. He laughs harder. Her glower deepens. “No need to get hostile, Belarus. It _is_ thanks to me that you are alive, you know.” He walks to the bed with a casual gait, holding a wooden tray.

“You should have left me to die. You have no need for me, do you, not when you have _my home_ under _your rule_,” She sneers, pure scathe and loathing permeating every word.

“No can do, milady. What kind of invader would _I _be if the invaded died before I could gauge some valuable info out of them? Not so awesome you see.” Says Prussia, nearing her bed and placing the tray on the bed drawer, “Besides, letting such a beauty die is a real sin, you know.” He gives her an appreciative look, which she growls disgusted at.

“Disgusting.” The Slavic turns to face the wall instead of her invader’s amused expression. Once again, she does not see a hand reaching for her, not until it touches her forehead. Natalya jumps at the contact. She whips around, hand instinctively searching for her knife. Emptiness meets her skin. For a brief second, Natalia stills, then her eyes begin to dilate. Everything seems to freeze, the world seems to move at a measly one centimetre per second. Natalya finds herself inhale, then exhale, then inhale again. Each beat of her heart abruptly turns too fast to be safe, thunderous and angry. She could not breathe. Her vision blurs, her ears ring. And she’s thinking, over and over again, _amIgoingtodieamIgoingtodie_. She could hear her thoughts like a prayer; her _fear _scares her more than death. Natalya’s limbs contract into themselves, toes curled, fingers stiffened. She could not move. Surrounded by darkness. Alone. Afraid.

_Someone…! Please…Help…!_

Then, cool palms clutch at her face.

“Breathe. Just breathe, Natalya,” A low voice says to her, “No one’s hurting you. You are safe. No one and nothing can harm you in this place.” It echoes in the hollowness of her mind, untangling the knots of terror and fright. Natalya distantly feels cold fingers stroke her face in slow, hypnotic motion, feather-light on her too-warm skin. Natalya is inhaling again, heart slowed and mind quiet. Natalya’s muscles are unlocking themselves; she stays pliant under the cool touch. The voice never stops murmuring in her ears.

“There you go. Just breathe.”

It whispers, calm, composed. It takes a while to appease her fears, but the hands on her face have not let go, not even once. Seconds, then minutes, Natalya is coming back to herself. Still bleary-eyed, she stares at the other occupant of the room blankly. “A bit twitchy, aren’t you.” Gilbert Beilschmidt says, withdrawing his hands as he restores their previous distance. Natalya offers no words, of gratitude or anything else, exhaustion flooding her systems.

She watches as he turns to the tray on the drawer. One scoop. Two scoops. She looks on, almost vacant, as her captor continues to pour spoonful’s of soup into a deep plate, unminding of her stare. Her eyes stay stubbornly on his person as he moves towards her. Natalya barely suppresses a flinch as one of his hand comes behind her neck, the other her back, pushing her up slowly. She leans against the headboard, observing Gilbert Beilschmidt turn to take the plate in one hand, silver spoon in another, and stroll back to her. Then, to her horror, he begins to spoon-feed her. Natalya stares in disbelief, before letting her expression morph into a scowl. She refuses to humiliate herself any further.

“I can eat by myself.” She glares, reaching to take the spoon and plate.

“Fine by me.” Gilbert shrugs, and hands over the utensils without any further comments.

Natalya narrows her eyes suspiciously when the personification of Prussia does not harass her for her, admittedly, prideful behaviour. She turns her attention to the plate of steaming broth, determined in her disregard of the man, who settles in the chair beside her bed and regards her with a neutral look. Turning the spoon in her hand, Natalya carefully blows on the hot liquid before sipping delicately. Gilbert simply watches her, for once silent and passive. Somehow, she finds that more unnerving than his incessant talking. Natalya snaps, finally.

“Stop watching! I can’t eat with you staring holes in my face!” She says. Her fingers grip the spoon more tightly than necessary, too on edge.

“Don’t notice me then. You’ve been doing that splendidly. Keep pretending I’m a piece of furniture or something. It’s not like I’m staring indecorously at you,” He says easily, oblivious (_not_) to her discomfort. As her scowl deepens, Gilbert offers her a deceptively innocent smile. Indigo eyes against ruby red, both nations keep their gazes exclusively on the other, one annoyed, the other unconcerned. Natalya is the first to break away. If he wants to stare, he can, she decides. Natalya is going to finish this and go to sleep. The less she has to see him, the better.

Natalya Arlovskaya spends the rest of the hour with Gilbert Beilschmidt just like that: him unrelenting in his observation, her stubborn in her apathy. They manage to not claw the other’s eyes out the remainder of the day. 

As nations, they are quick to recover. It did not take long for Natalya to completely regain her healthy pallor. Not her original strength, however, what with the Axis’ siege on her cities. She has been forced to stay at Gilbert’s house ever since the day he found her amongst the snow, with nothing to engage herself with and left to wander around his house like a vengeful ghost. One thing she is relieved about, however, is she does not have to see him every day, with Gilbert preoccupied with his wartime progress. But when they _do _see each other, the Prussian never ceases to annoy her.

“Gilbert Beilschmidt, do that one more time and I’ll cut your head off.” She threatens as he attempts to braid her hair for the third time that afternoon as they sit on the couch in his personal library. She has had a whole week of not having to see his unbearably smug mug, but that ends today.

Has anyone of Gilbert’s soldiers been with them, they would have been shocked to oblivion by the insolent way Natalya addresses Gilbert, and how Gilbert – for all of his military ruthlessness – could engage in something as childish as braiding someone’s hair. He has been harassing her constantly since the moment her conditions improved enough for her to leave her assigned room. Her screaming death threats at has him hardly deterred him from persisting. Up until one point, after a whole afternoon of yelling at him until she lost her voice entirely, Natalya – too tired to continue engaging in pointless yelling at the man – has settled on passive-aggressive warnings, instead. Which, to her frustration, Gilbert merely treats as playful banter.

“Nah, you won’t. I’m too awesome for that.” He shrugs at her, reaching out for Natalya’s silvery blonde locks again. She swats his hands away as soon as they come near, eyes not leaving the book she has been reading. He instead grabs her fingers with his own, and kisses each delicate tip. Natalya whips around at the tender gesture, snatching her hand back, eyes wide, and glowers at him with the most disgusted expression she could muster. She has grown accustomed to most of his teasing, which ranges from pulling at her hair to replacing her bows with his ties, even so far as biting her neck whenever he feels like it, but _this_, this is a new level of provocation. At the look on her face, Gilbert merely chortle gleefully.

“I’ll kill you,” Natalya hisses. She refuses to participate in another game he has conceived in that twisted mind of his. “Touch me again and I’ll sever all your limbs.” Her deep indigo eyes narrow dangerously at his own laughing red. The Belorussian staunchly ignores the warm puffs of breath hitting her lips and betraying how close they really are.

“Why? It’s not anything indecent?” He says, smiling at her, “Ah, or you’re afraid you’ll love me kissing so much you’ll crave it when I’m not around?” His lips lift a fraction more at the shock on her face, which soon turns into another one of those outraged scowls he is now _obsessed_ with teasing out of her _all the time_. Despite their distance, or lack thereof, Natalya refuses to pull away first, resolutely staring into Gilbert’s smirking eyes. Gilbert, on the other hand, has no choice but to entertain the thought that if he leaned in a little more, he could see for himself what she tastes like. He wonders, what sort of expression this feisty nation would make when he does. He is simply curious.

So, he kisses her.

For a brief moment, Gilbert _thrills _at the way Natalya all but freezes when his lips press against hers; an innocent deer caught in headlights. In such proximity, he can see flecks of violet in her deep blue irises, made even more vivid by the multitude of emotions flashing in them. He wonders if could count them all. Lost in the fragments of colours in the Belorussian’s eyes, Gilbert fails to realise the warning glint of Natalya coming back to her senses. His amusement is effectively cut short when she bites hard on his lower lip. Instinctively holding back a wince, the Prussian tries to pull away, a stifled pained groan escaping his injured lips. He is surprised once more when Natalya chases after him, soft mouth slotting expertly against his. He can feel her sucking lightly on his wound, feels her smirk apparent on his skin. Gilbert parts his lips, tastes his own blood on her tongue when it finally touches his.

With little effort and too much arousal, he surges up and drives Natalya back against the couch, hands on her waist squeezing tightly. Gilbert takes advantage of the moment she gasps in surprise and presses their mouths more insistently together, his tongue sweeping at all the corners of her mouth. Gilbert grazes his teeth along her bottom lip. _Bites_, into her soft flesh, vicious in every move. Her muffled growl tells him she could indeed feel the sneer pressed against her bloodied lips. The taste of metal spreading across his tongue, Gilbert pulls away with no small amount of satisfaction.

Grinning like a cat getting his cream, the Prussian stares down at Natalya. If looks could kill, he is certain her glower would have pierced him through a thousand times over. Taking in Natalya splayed out beneath him, Gilbert must admit, the heated look in her eyes, the blood dripping down her chin, only make her more attractive than she already is. He dips his head and licks a bloody path up her lips, smearing red across pale skin. He brushes his mouth against hers, then, like a full stop to a statement.

“Well, that was enjoyable,” He says, laughter ringing in each word. He pushes himself up on his elbows for a better view of her expression. “_You bloody_—” The Belorussian begins, then pauses, staring at him with hooded eyes. Whatever she finds, Natalya clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth in finality. Still with narrowed eyes and frowning lips, she raises one hand to wipe away the red smudge at the corner of Gilbert’s mouth with her thumb. He watches, amused, as her tongue flicks out and wipes it clean of the remainder ruby red. It appears all of her frustration at his previous behaviours have been drained along with his blood.

“You know, I can’t help but think you’re enjoying this way too much,” He smirks at her, all sharp canines, “Never knew you were a biter.”

“Oh? Are you sure you’re not talking about yourself?” Natalya says, slow and languid, sharp nails tapping rhythmically along Gilbert’s jaw.

“Me? Nah,” He grins, “I’m sure I can do better than that.” And dives in for another bloody kiss.

It’s been a year since she was taken to his house. But this is the first time Natalya witnesses the Great Prussia incapacitated on his bed. She stands at the door to his room, watching emotionlessly as his servants run around fetching all sort of medical equipment to tend to his wounds. In the next room, his brother, Ludwig Beilschmidt, is also lying injured, though not as badly as the elder Beilschmidt, or so it appears. Natalya has the distinct impression that maybe, Gilbert had covered for his brother when the car exploded, though she really could not care less whether he did.

Natalya casts one last look at the bandaged figure surrounded by doctors and nurses, before making her way to the garden for an afternoon nap.

Two hours later find her in front of Gilbert’s room once again. As she hovers at the door, a nurse steps out carrying a tray full of food. She bows slightly to Natalya before walking down the hall. Staring at the bed from her position at the entrance for another minute or so, the Belorussian finally steps inside and closes the door.

Staring at him limbs swathed in blotchy white, she cannot help but compare the Prussia to a fresh mummy. “Look at you. How disgustingly pathetic.” Her smirk is cruel, her words are meant to destroy.

“It’s amazing how much compassion you possess.”

Gilbert coughs, hoarse and pained, but he sounds impressively flat as the words flow out of his lips. The man does not deign to open his eyes, but he knows Natalya is indeed having a field day at his predicament.

“So I’ve been told. Really, who would’ve thought you’d be so beaten. Who did it? England? America? What a sight.”

She is enjoying this, relishing his mortality for the first time since she met the bastard. “I could kill you right now and there is nothing you could do. Then I’ll return to Brother. I’ll watch as he tears you apart for keeping me thus long.” She whispers, wicked and malicious. He is not sure whether she is joking. He must admit, the possibility of Natalya Arlovskaya actually murdering him is not low.

“Of course, you’d like that, wouldn’t you. Though,” He says, “I’m not sure that heartless jerk would do _anything _for you, really. Beat me up, probably. But certainly _not for you._” A red eye cracks open, mocking even as its owner is battered from head to toe. Next to him, Natalya has gone quiet. The mirthful grin has left her face. Not for the first time, she truly wishes she could just smash his skull open and let this be the end of everything. Of him overlooking her threat as merely a bad joke. Of how he could turn the table on hers with just one sentence.

“But _me_, Natalya, _I’ll _gladly beat those fuckin’ Allies up for you. _I’m _the one that needs you here.”

Of the way he names her a prisoner, but treats her like a mistress, as if there were no beautiful women at his beck and call should he need it. She _knows_, that he only means it so far as ‘_if I lost you to those foolish Allies, I’d lose the whole damned war_’. That this is just a ploy to keep her placated while he razes her _own country _to ruins. But it does not stop her heart from jolting in her ribcage.

She cannot help the _alarms_ going off in her head.

“I’ll have you killed before you know it. Don’t think for a second I’ll buy your foolish nonsense,” She says, low, for his ears only, “Be glad you’re alive, Gilbert Beilschmidt. Because, soon, _I’ll_ be coming for your head.”

She leaves the room without another word, or another backward glance, the door slamming in her wake a deafening full-stop.

“So you will.” Gilbert chuckles, wry. “Let’s hope I won’t be coming for you first.”

Brother has made a move. Natalya folds the letter back into the envelope.

She will be freed soon. She will be going back to Brother and the others. She will be by his side, watch as he mows Germany and Prussia and all those stupid Axis to the bloody, bloody ground. She will stand next to him, wielding her knives to gauge out their enemies’ hearts and cut off their heads. She will be doing whatever she is told. Following her Brother’s every footstep. Being an obedient little sister. _His _little sister.

Or, that’s what she has expected to hear.

But no, not really. Her name is nowhere between those lines.

Silence. Silence reigns in her heart, her mind.

She throws the letter into the fireplace, staring as the paper burns to crisp, crumbles to ashes; just like her people, her cities, her country. Her heart.

Everyday, Natalya feels a little of herself shredded away, a dull pain that throbs all over her body. She cannot scream, the pain not enough; she cannot breathe without hissing every four or five beats, the wounds always fresh and new.

She could only sit in some secluded parts of the mansion’s library, eyes closed, and take in the agony her people are feeling every waking moment.

All because of one man, Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Natalya cannot even make herself angry anymore, just existing is already a chore. Her Brother is nowhere to be seen, his letters are scarce, insistently along the lines of ‘_we’re almost winning_’, and never ‘_I’m coming for you, Sister_’. Natalya does not shed tears – she has not in a few hundred years – but it is close. Closer, when she hears another chorus of mournful cries and grievous yowls (and ringing gunshots) deep from within her heart: more, and more, of her people are taken away from her, to hell (_it is not heaven_, _because this is _war).

She exhales, a sigh seeping all the way from her deepest core.

It could not be any worse. Nothing, _nothing_, could be worse than the pain of her people.

Natalya’s screams echo hauntingly across the large mansion, its empty halls and deserted chambers. She writhes in indescribable pain, each wave of agony only worse than the last.

She can feel it. From the marrow of her bones to the hair on her skin. Explosives going off everywhere, bombs and landmines and gunpowder, amongst the streets of her cities, the villages of her country. Blood and flesh and bones. The flashes of red and white penetrate her mind with horrifying clarity.

Another spine-chilling scream escapes her lips when she _feels_, _hears_, another explosion in Minsk, her _heart_. Tears stream down her pallid face, her fingernails claw into her own flesh as though she could dig out the pain. Blotches of burnt skin blossom on her chest. Her entire body aches, her heart does not stop bleeding.

Natalya Arlovskaya – no, _Belarus _has been turned into the world’s minefield.

Gilbert leans on the far wall of the room and watches, arms folded across his chest, one leg over the other, infallible composure. He is the one who did this, commanded his men into raining bombs after bombs, more and much more deadly explosives, on Belarus’ lands. Turned her into his battlefront, his arena, against her big brother, against Russia.

It was an order he’d made. One he would not regret.

He neither comments nor smiles, simply observes, as another tormented shriek tears itself out of her delicate throat. He closes his eyes and burns the image of Natalya Arlovskaya all crumpled and desecrated into the depth of his heart.

There she lies, ravaged by wars and devastation and destruction.

By the man who would kiss her to dreamless sleep.

_“I hereby announce the dissolution of the Kingdom of Prussia.”_

Gilbert has stopped paying attention at this point. He drowns out all the noises around him, eyes browsing the audience for a particular shade of blonde. As expected, she is sitting amongst the USSR countries. Cold, wrapped up in the whites of gauzes, she stares into his worn-out gaze. From this distance, he could not make out her exact expression. Gilbert does not need to, for he knows, there would only be blizzards and snowstorms in the blues of her eyes.

It is a pity, he must say, she would never get to come for his head, would she. They have gotten there first.

The Allies have triumphed.

The Kingdom of Prussia, the Axis Powers, have lost.

And in the middle of the headquarter of the Allied Control Council, Kammergericht, stands the man that began it all: Gilbert Beilschmidt, The Free State of Prussia, who has been convicted as “a bearer of militarism and reaction in Germany" and thus sentenced to dissolution. This man, this nation, the once-_conqueror_ of the world, will cease to exist as a _country _the moment he walks out of this hall.

Standing before the Allies, refusing to bow even once, Gilbert faces his fate with ever-present pride and arrogance. He knows this would be the outcome should he lose. And he did.

_This is it_, he smirks, to himself. To the nations watching him like hawks watching preys.

The fall of the Black Eagle. The fall of the once supremacy of military powers.

_Sorry, West, _bruder_ could not give you the world._

Gilbert chuckles. Then, he laughs.

And then, as madness resonates, the Kingdom of Prussia falls to his knees.

East Germany wanders the halls and corridors of the Russian mansion like a lost soul, with nowhere to go and nothing to occupy his empty mind with. He moves soundlessly from one room to another. Until one particular door, painted a cream similar to all the rest, its nameplate the only thing different.

_Belarus_, it reads.

Gilbert stares, raises one hand to knock. And promptly finds himself pressed harshly into the scratchy surface of the door. Ah, he has lost the ability to sense her presence.

“We meet again.” Gilbert offers the country that has suffered the most under his hands a careless smirk, nonchalant, even with hands bound behind his back by the iron grip of delicate fingers. “Natalya.”

“_Imbeciles like _you_ have no rights to call me so familiarly_,” Natalya spits out, venom lacing in her voice, her breath.

“Ah, so I shall call you _milady _then.” Gilbert wheezes as Natalya’s hand tightens around his neck, face still pressed against hard wood. “You should…have…ah, no complaints…about that. Appropriate…ugh…of a…prisoner, huh?”

The Belorussian leans closer to him, until he could feel her breath hitting the shell of his ear. She whispers, low, deadly, “_Who do you think you are? Prancing around as if you were still some great power. Did you not think I wouldn’t persecute you for the things you’ve done to my people?” _

Gilbert struggles to breathe as the vengeful representative of Belarus presses his face harder and harder against the door, fingernails like iron barbs breaking into skin, drawing thin rivulets of ruby red blood. He cannot overpower her, even if she remains swathed in stained layers of gauzes: Belarus is still a nation; Prussia, however, has lost his. He can only wriggles against her grip, inhaling what little air he could through half his nose, as fingers tighten around his windpipe.

Ah, it appears he has _truly_ roused her wrath. Implacable, this time.

A weak ‘_Belarus_’ is all he could manage, muffled against thick wood. Natalya narrows her eyes at him, hands squeezing even more tightly around his neck and wrists. She is full of resentment, of grief, of hatred. Not just for him. For _everything, _for her _Brother_ who did not come for her despite all promises, for _herself _who could not defend her country and harbour thoughts of one day she would be saved_. _Natalya grits her teeth, metal and bitterness flooding her mouth.

The war is indeed over, but who, _who_, would pay back the price her people have?

Gilbert Beilschmidt writhes beneath her palms, calling out her name pathetically. And _oh_, Natalya remembers, now, just _who _he is – _was_.

“_Gilbert Beilschmidt._”

The way she purrs his name sends shivers down Gilbert’s spine. Not the kind that makes his eyes dilate with pleasure, but the kind that yields icy spikes from the marrow of his bones, piercing his skin from the inside out. Gilbert tries to turn and escape the Belarussian’s grip. When he could not, he calls her name again, urgently, pleadingly. Natalya smiles, he could tell, into the skin just beneath his ear:

“_You see, it’s only right to repay the debts you owe, isn’t it?_” She breathes, soft giggles ruffling the hair at his nape, “_I’ll have you know, _East Germany_, what it’s like to be a _prisoner.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thank you for taking your time to read this fic! 
> 
> About this fic, I've always been intrigued by Prussia and Belarus' potential chemistry, especially when he seems to be such a persistent character who is more likely tease you the angrier you get, while Belarus seems to be the kind to react just be sensing his presence. As a result, I decided to write this fic, based around their potential meeting at the beginning of World War II, and how it might play out, up until the point they reunited in the USSR house. The natures of the tension between them is something I tried to emphasise, which morphs and fluctuates as the story progresses. One thing I hope most for is that the varying degrees of their relationship come through in the fic, and the readers could feel the various directions in which their relations/relationships might take. 
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed my interpretation of their characters and the fic in general! Thank you for reading! Comments and thoughts are always welcome and appreciated! <3 <3
> 
> P/S: I'm actually looking for a beta reader (fandoms: Touken Ranbu, Hetalia, Bungou Stray Dogs, mostly). If you're interested, please PM me!


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